


Selfish

by tastewithouttalent



Category: K (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Porn, Bruises, Dom/sub, Established Relationship, Handcuffs, M/M, Masochism, No Plot/Plotless, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Restraints, Threats of Violence, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-09
Updated: 2015-07-09
Packaged: 2018-04-03 23:06:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4118038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Mikoto makes the attempt anyway, because if it’s a game it’s one he likes playing, because there’s a torn-open pleasure in seeing how quickly Reisi goes from asleep against the wall to shoving a hold against Mikoto’s head." When Mikoto offers Reisi a choice of outcomes, Reisi takes the selfish one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Selfish

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Shiny_Pichu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shiny_Pichu/gifts).



Reisi wakes up quickly.

Mikoto was expecting that. He’s had months, now, more than enough time to test all the other man’s defenses and find them all as impregnable as he had always believed them to be. He knows any attempt at escape is futile, the effort more of a game than anything else, now. But he makes the attempt anyway, because if it’s a game it’s one he likes playing, because there’s a torn-open pleasure in seeing how quickly Reisi goes from asleep against the wall to shoving a hold against Mikoto’s head.

“Stop,” he says, low and remarkably calm under the circumstances. “It won’t do you any good.”

“I know it won’t,” Mikoto drawls, the knowledge pouring itself into the shape of heat on his tongue, in his blood, along his spine. “I still have to try.”

“Stop,” Reisi says again, and this time his hold on Mikoto’s hair comes with a force, enough of a shove to slam the other’s head against the cell wall. Mikoto’s thoughts blur, his vision going grey for a moment, and the fingers he had working over the chain around his wrists fall slack without conscious effort on his part.

“You’re going to kill me someday,” Mikoto manages as he blinks his vision back into line, as his cot dips down with the addition of Reisi’s weight to the edge. His scalp is tingling, his hands trembling with the rush of adrenaline nearly as hot as his power, like a faint echo to remind him of what he could use, if he truly wanted to pick a fight.

“Your head’s too thick for that,” Reisi observes, his voice so level the insult is nearly lost, but some of the pressure of his hold eases, his other hand coming out to fit between Mikoto’s temple and the wall. Mikoto shuts his eyes to the touch of Reisi’s fingers against him, breathes in the faint spicy scent that ever clings to his clothes, and when Reisi draws his hand away with a sigh of almost-relief Mikoto is smiling, the tension at his mouth coming unbidden.

“You won’t be able to restrain me if you’re that worried about the consequences,” he says. Reisi’s fingers slide free of his hair to his shoulder instead, push him down to the mattress instead; Mikoto doesn’t resist any more than he ever resists Reisi. With those hands on him, he’s unlikely to offer any kind of resistance at all, and he knows they both know it. “It’s my life or the world’s, right?”

“Not if I keep you here,” Reisi says. His eyes are dark and shuttered behind the shine of his glasses when Mikoto blinks his vision back into clarity; Mikoto can’t make out the emotion in them he knows is there, the proof of humanity he only ever finds when he actively needles for it. “That’s the deal, isn’t it, Suoh?”

“Right,” Mikoto says, doesn’t try to move. His stillness doesn’t make a difference; Reisi is still pinning him down hard by his shoulder, pressing with all his weight to keep Mikoto in place even though he doesn’t need to. His other hand is coming in sideways, now, trailing along the collar of Mikoto’s t-shirt like he’s sampling the heat of the other’s skin, and there’s not enough pressure there to pass off as restraint but Mikoto refrains from commenting. He just waits, watches the unreadable darkness in Reisi’s eyes, and when the fingers slip up along the line of his throat -- as they always do -- he turns his chin up to their force, lets Reisi press his thumb against his pulse point without a word of protest.

“You’re selfish,” Reisi observes, working his fingers to fit more closely against the curve of Mikoto’s throat. Mikoto can feel his heart beating faster, that adrenaline uncoiling through him like a cat stretching out into the available space. He still doesn’t offer resistance, just swallows against the faint pressure of Reisi’s fingers and waits for the rest of the other’s words. He knows this, too, the deliberate verbal deconstruction at the scalpel edge of Reisi’s tongue. “You could step down.” The fingers at his shoulder tighten, what would be a threat were there any possibility of Reisi stopping, were there any chance Mikoto would want him to stop. “You could let me take over.” His other hand tightens, his weight tips forward, pressuring the clarity of Mikoto’s breathing. “I’d do it for you.”

“I know,” Mikoto rasps, forcing the words past the tension on his throat. His blood is fire, now, lacing out into his body until he imagines he can feel every artery, every vein separate and glowing like a lit cigarette. “I know you would.”

“Why won’t you let me?” Reisi asks. There’s a crack, now, a breaking point in his voice like it’s bearing too much weight, the shadow underneath threatening the surface. Mikoto whines faintly, the line of his spine tightening involuntarily in response to that sound.

“I want you here,” he says, blinks up at the shadow of Reisi leaning over him. There’s tension in Reisi’s shoulder, his arm locked out as he leans forward to bear down on Mikoto’s throat; for a moment Mikoto can’t breathe, has to gasp a hissing inhale before he can attempt to continue. “You’d leave me again if I did anything else.”

There’s a flicker at Reisi’s eyes, a motion of his eyelashes to match the tiny tug of motion at the corner of his mouth. “Selfish,” he says again, slow and dark on the word, leans in close, closer, so near his lips are nearly skimming Mikoto’s forehead. Mikoto’s eyes flutter shut, his lungs fill with the smell of Reisi’s jacket; it’s better than the cigarettes Reisi won’t give him anymore, the weight of the spice more than enough to compensate for the lack of the smoke.

“So am I,” Reisi sighs, the closest thing to defeat Mikoto has ever heard in his tone, and Mikoto’s mouth turns itself into a smile, satisfaction radiating from the heat of Reisi’s body pressed so close to him. There are other things he should worry about; his clan, for one thing, the actual possibility of escape, his need for revenge. But as long as Reisi stays he makes the decisions for them both, gives Mikoto the excuse of futility, and Mikoto doesn’t care enough about responsibility to overcome the aching want all along his spine and seeping tranquility into his blood. It knocks him still and unresisting against the sheets, until even when Reisi’s fingers tighten enough for his head to swim with the need for oxygen the only fight he offers is opening his mouth wider for the air he needs.

“ _Now_  you’re compliant,” Reisi observes, pushing back and away. The faint light catches off his glasses, turns the shine of the illumination into a barrier, turns Reisi’s expression into stoic judgment. Mikoto cracks a smile, the best answer he can give with his throat too strained for speech, and Reisi tightens his hand once, almost gently, until there’s no air for Mikoto’s lungs at all.

Mikoto wonders, sometimes, when his vision is blurring and his lungs are aching with desire for Reisi and air in equal measure, whether it wouldn’t be better for Reisi to just hold on, to save him from a more violent end and set them both free of their mutual confinement. It might be easier, he thinks, wonders if it won’t come to that, if it wouldn’t have already if Reisi were truly as cool and rational as he likes to pretend he is. But pretending can’t make reality, as much as they both try, and Reisi’s pressed too close to sustain the lie of his coolness. His expression is composed but his body is hot, burning radiant through the layers and layers of clothes keeping his skin from Mikoto’s, and when Mikoto arches up -- he can’t help it, the ache low in his stomach is too much to resist -- the hand at his shoulder moves too-fast, fingers splaying against the bottom edge of his t-shirt and catching over bare skin so Mikoto can feel the way Reisi’s hand is shaking.

“Damn,” Reisi says, careful and clear, and he lets his hold on Mikoto’s throat go, reaches up to tilt his glasses back into clarity while Mikoto gasps an involuntary rush of air. His jeans are taut against the front, suggestion enough if Reisi felt like tipping his wrist down to offer glancing friction, but evidently he doesn’t. The pressure stays instead, fingertips digging in just below Mikoto’s ribcage, and Reisi’s leaning in again like he’s drawn by a magnet, his knee slipping wider on the bed until his hips press against Mikoto’s knee. “Maybe it would have been better if I had let you escape after all.”

Mikoto smiles at the ceiling, grates a breath past his aching throat. “Maybe,” he allows, shifts his knee enough that he can press up between Reisi’s legs. The other’s head dips down, his dark hair falling to obscure the composure of his expression, and Mikoto listens to the catch in his breathing, focuses on the tremor in the hand at his skin. “Do you regret it?”

“Sometimes,” Reisi says, the word heavy and sincere, but Mikoto angles his leg up higher and anything else he might say gives way to a shudder, the sound of Reisi’s breathing too loud for his restraint to call back. Mikoto’s heart is hammering in his chest, his hands working into fists on nothing where they’re chained in front of him, and then Reisi’s hand goes sideways, shoving over his stomach to clench hard at his hip instead.

“Turn over,” he says, all the command of a King back in his tone, and Mikoto obeys, maneuvers his leg carefully free of Reisi’s knees and twists onto his stomach with his chained hands pinned underneath him. It’s an uncomfortable angle, the metal links pressing against the thin of his t-shirt to dig into his skin, but he doesn’t protest; against the lingering pain at his throat it’s negligible, easy to forget in the promise of what Reisi is going to do to him. There are fingers at his hip, not-inconsiderable strength printing fingertips hard against Mikoto’s skin, and the ache catches in his chest, works itself into a groan in his throat and a tremor in his thighs while Reisi fits his other hand under Mikoto’s hips to unfasten his jeans one-handed. He’s quick about it, elegantly efficient in this as he is in everything, and when his hold at Mikoto’s hip loosens it’s only so he can pull the weight of the denim down and away. The motion leaves Mikoto breathless, trembling and forming his hands into fists on the thin sheets under him as anticipation sweeps scorching heat through him, as if it’s Reisi who carries fire within him. Maybe he does; Reisi’s hands are hot against his skin as he urges Mikoto’s thighs wider, as he reaches out to shove Mikoto down against the bed by his shoulders. It’s not necessary -- Mikoto’s making no move to twist away, is too anxious for more to even think of any such attempt -- but it’s not about restraint anymore anyway, hasn’t been since even the first day inside these cell walls. So Mikoto doesn’t protest, doesn’t try to turn back to look at Reisi’s face; he just shuts his eyes, takes a rough-edged breath, and waits.

Reisi doesn’t make him wait long. Mikoto is still thrumming with anticipation when spit-slick skin touches him, when elegant fingers push inside him with deceptive strength. The friction makes him jerk, whine something incoherent and not-quite-a-protest against the cot, and his skin is burning with heat but his cock is flushing harder, arousal spilling slick against the head.

“Quiet,” Reisi says, sounding very nearly bored, and sinks his fingers in deeper. The pressure at Mikoto’s shoulders keeps him in place against the tremor along his spine, braces him steady at the bed while Reisi’s touches presses heat inside him, stretches a burn into his blood until Mikoto feels like he’s combusting, like he’s drawing on his power to set them both alight at once. Reisi’s moving, he’s aware in some distant way, but the details are far-off; it’s too hard to think, too hard to keep his mind on anything when every movement is cresting sensation up his spine to fall into useless tension against the weight of Reisi’s hold against his back.

Mikoto doesn’t know how long Reisi takes. The heat is coming over him in waves, turning pain inside-out into the edge of pleasure, until when Reisi draws his fingers free to lick more moisture over them Mikoto is left shaky and desperate until his touch returns. Then it’s friction again, pressure pushing him over the edge of comfort and up against too-much; it’s not until Reisi pulls out again that Mikoto can catch a breath, can even interpret the intensity sparking up his spine and tense in his fingers as anything approaching pleasure.

“Reisi,” he manages, sounding hoarse and raw and shaky, and he does look back, now. Reisi isn’t watching him; he’s looking down, managing his own clothes with the same graceful speed with which he unfastened Mikoto’s. Mikoto can’t see the details of what he’s doing, doesn’t need to; he can see Reisi’s face instead, the blown-open darkness turning purple into black, heat melting the steady line of his mouth open as he inhales hard. Reisi looks up as he lifts his hand to his mouth to lick across his palm; there’s nothing but shadows in his eyes, not even the shine of glass to save Mikoto from the darkness in his expression. They stare at each other for a moment while Reisi’s hand lingers in front of his mouth; then he pulls it away, his lips damp with moisture, and leans in so the hand at Mikoto’s shoulders is taking most of his weight.

“I told you to be quiet,” he says. His knees shift, bump hard against the inside of Mikoto’s; then there’s heat, the spit-slick press of Reisi’s cock into him, and Mikoto’s groaning in spite of the command, shuddering through his whole body at the burn of friction in his blood.

“Suoh,” Reisi says, and there’s a hand in his hair, too-much weight shoving him down hard against the mattress. The pressure aches at Mikoto’s head, the rising bruise from his impact with the wall offering the protest of pain, but the sound in his throat is still appreciation, still the flare of heat as Reisi sinks deeper into him. “Shut up.” The weight at his shoulders gives way, fingers sliding into his mouth instead, and Mikoto chokes on a breath before he can think to open his jaw wider, to let Reisi shove fingers in against the wet of his tongue.

It doesn’t stop the sound in his throat. He can’t make himself go silent, can’t call back the full-body groans that are pushing up his throat in time with Reisi’s thrusts. But Reisi isn’t talking anymore, appears satisfied enough with the muffled effect his fingers are having, and after a moment Mikoto closes his mouth around the obstruction, sucks himself into something approximating silence against Reisi’s fingers. With his lips tight against Reisi’s skin the sound curls in on itself, rings in his head instead of in the air, until he’s vibrating all through his bones, heat and sound tangling onto each other until he’s nothing but a receiver for them both, humming himself into a modicum of quiet against Reisi’s touch.

Reisi doesn’t speak. Reisi never speaks, anymore than he lets Mikoto watch him; the closet Mikoto ever gets is this, touch and heat and taste but no sound but that of their skin catching together, no sight but the dark of Reisi’s head bowed over his shoulder. He can barely hear the other’s breathing over the irrepressible whine in his own throat, can’t see Reisi’s face tensing into anticipation; there’s just the speed of his movement to carry the knowledge, the barely-there increase in the rhythm of his thrusts before he groans a single faint sound and stutters to a stop. Mikoto can feel his fingers flexing against his tongue, the bracing hold at his hair falling slack in the first distraction of pleasure; for a minute the touch is almost tender, Reisi’s fingers stroking over his scalp with some of the affection Mikoto remembers from before. Then Reisi recovers, with a speed both impressive and disappointing, and his fingers are dragging free of Mikoto’s mouth, the hand at Mikoto’s hair knotting into a fist again.

“Turn your head down,” he says, and Mikoto does, too melting-hot for anything but compliance. Reisi’s hand shoves his face against the sheets, presses his breath hot and turning in on itself, and Mikoto is just fighting for a full breath of air when Reisi’s wet fingers close around his cock and jerk up in a burst of friction.

Mikoto doesn’t know what sound he makes. It’s a shout, maybe, or a groan, or it might be Reisi’s name turned into a plea for something he can’t parse. It doesn’t matter; with the sheets to catch the sound it goes unintelligible, whatever meaning it might have had stolen before it could form. Reisi’s still pressed against him, his knees bracing Mikoto in place while he jerks him off hard and so fast it borders on painful, the heat that surges in Mikoto’s body dragged to the surface instead of persuaded. The tremors in his shoulders are not his own, the fire in his veins is running wild and out of control, and when Reisi twists his hand and forces Mikoto into satisfaction it’s more Reisi’s orgasm than it is Mikoto’s, though it’s his body that shudders through the jolts of heat. Mikoto can’t see, can barely breathe; all he can do is quiver helplessly against the bed, even his fire surrendered to Reisi’s control.

Reisi lets him up after a minute. Mikoto doesn’t try to sit up; he just turns his head to gasp at the cool of fresh air, lies still and exhausted while Reisi pulls away to leave Mikoto with the chill of sweat cooling against his skin. By the time Mikoto manages to look over his shoulder Reisi is back in full uniform, is standing at the foot of the bed watching him with the steady calm of complete judgment in his eyes.

Mikoto pulls up a smile, feels it twist itself into a smirk on his lips. He can’t control that anymore than he can control the shadow turning his voice low and sultry when he says, “So much for that escape attempt.” Reisi doesn’t blink; Mikoto doesn’t look away. “Maybe I’ll have more success next time.”

“I’ll be here,” Reisi says, his words certain, his expression implacable. Mikoto can feel the print of Reisi’s fingers on his throat, the friction of the other’s touch bruised into his hip and the dip between his shoulders.

“I know,” he says, and he smiles.


End file.
